


mercy no more

by tgrsndshrks



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Bloodplay, Crossdressing, Dom/sub Undertones, Finger Sucking, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, i hate this what have i done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 20:19:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4151514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tgrsndshrks/pseuds/tgrsndshrks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You think I haven't noticed?” Manson asks. He drags a finger through the fresh part of the blood and holds it out, an inch from Twiggy's mouth.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>or, twiggy has a thing for manson covered in blood and he thought he'd been a lot more subtle about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mercy no more

**Author's Note:**

> guess who fell down the new ship rabbit hole again
> 
> uh, i have no excuse for this and i'm sorry. i guess this is smells like children era - i didn't have any era in particular in mind (just vaguely mid/late 90s) so feel free to project whatever era you like that fits.
> 
> title from it will come back by hozier
> 
> DISCLAIMER (added to author’s notes of all fics w/ twiggy in them on nov. 13 2017): i no longer support jeordie white/twiggy ramirez after he was accused of rape and sexual assault/harassment by several people, particularly an ex girlfriend. i’m not sure if i’m going to leave these fics up on my page or orphan them, but i want to publicly state that as a Real Life Person, i do not fuck with twiggy at all anymore and will not be including him in fics from hereon out. i do not endorse his behavior and the character in this fic is a completely fictionalized character, independent of the real life jeordie/twiggy.

He thought he'd been subtle. At least, as subtle as is possible for Twiggy.

Twiggy's drunk, and he probably took a Vicodin earlier too, but he doesn't remember. He's fumbling with the door key. _Fucking hotel keys,_ he thinks, swiping the card the wrong way again. When he finally gets it open, Manson is standing by the window, staring out at the freeway. Twiggy can see the smears of dried blood on his side, and his throat tightens. He'd seen him drag the glass across his ribs during the show, but didn't realize how much he'd bled. Manson looks over at him, black lipstick smeared in a ring around his red mouth, and grins. Sneers.

“You took awhile,” Manson remarks.

“I think I took Vicodin earlier,” Twiggy says, which may or may not be related to Manson's comment. He's fucked up.

“Bleeding's almost stopped,” Manson says. Twiggy nods. He sits down on the edge of the bed and smooths his dress out over his lap. He's trying not to look at Manson too hard, but he looks a mess, and he looks sexy. He's still in his show clothes, corset and wrecked tights and stockings and boots. He has makeup streaked all over his face and then there's the blood, bright red in some spots and rusted brown where it's dried.

“You probably need stitches,” Twiggy says, rubbing his nose. Or maybe he did a line of something. Whatever.

“I was waiting on you,” Manson says. Twiggy squints at him.

“Why?” he asks dumbly. “I'm drunk.” Maybe he's staring at him. 

“Come here,” Manson says.

“Why?” Twiggy says again, and Manson just goes over to him instead. Twiggy looks up at him, head spinning a bit. Manson is already tall, but with the boots and the angle, it's exaggerated. Twiggy looks at the blood clotting and he's pretty sure he hears Manson laugh once.

“You think I haven't noticed?” Manson asks. He drags a finger through the fresh part of the blood and holds it out, an inch from Twiggy's mouth. He looks back up at Manson.

“Noticed what?” he says, trying to play stupid, but, yeah, he's not good at being subtle. He can smell the iron in the blood from here.

“Open your mouth,” Manson says. Twiggy hesitates for a moment, but he does it, just wide enough for a finger. He tastes blood and the vaguely dirty smell of grease paint. He closes his mouth around the finger and Manson grins. “I knew it. I noticed how you'd look at me when I was bloody.” He plucks his finger out and there's a ring of red lipstick around it.

“Fuck off,” Twiggy says, despite the fact that he's already getting hard. Manson ignores him, just drags three fingers through the wet blood and shoves them back in Twiggy's mouth. He hums softly around them, grabbing at the straps on Manson's corset.

“I bet you're hard under that skirt,” Manson says, shoving his other hand up Twiggy's dress and grabbing him through the tights. Twiggy hadn't even really noticed, but apparently he is. Manson pulls his fingers from Twiggy's mouth and pushes his dress up, grabbing the crotch of his tights and tearing a hole in them.

“What the fuck,” Twiggy says. “You ripped my t-”

“Shut up,” Manson says, grabbing Twiggy's cock with the spit-slick fingers. Twiggy shuts up. “You want more?” Twiggy nods, sufficiently distracted by Manson's grip, and Manson grabs him by his dreads and pulls his head to the cut on his ribs. Twiggy licks, tasting blood and sweat, smearing red blood and red lipstick across skin. Manson spits in his hand and works Twiggy's cock. “Did you think I wouldn't notice you staring at me whenever I'm bleeding?” he asks.

“I guess,” Twiggy says, bracing himself with the straps of Manson's corset. He rests his forehead against Manson's chest, biting back a moan.

“Were you afraid of it?” Manson asks, pushing Twiggy's head back. He grabs at his own chest, tearing the cut open again and smearing his fingers in the blood, forcing them back into Twiggy's mouth.

“Uh uh,” Twiggy moans around the fingers. Manson digs them into his tongue and Twiggy chokes a little, but doesn't push them out.

“Are you gonna cum with those bloody fingers in your mouth?” Manson asks, gripping tighter.

“Uh huh,” Twiggy hums, nodding quickly, lipstick ringed around Manson's fingers. And he does – he tenses up and his knuckles go white where he's grabbing Manson's corset and he cums, spilling on his own tights and Manson's hand. He sucks the fingers in his mouth, finding more blood between them. Manson works the last of his orgasm out and wipes his hand on Twiggy's tights, taking his fingers back with some resistance. Twiggy watches as Manson unlaces his corset and pulls it away. He sees every scar he saw bleed that he couldn't touch, but now this new fresh cut is his. Manson tosses the corset to the floor.

“Suck me off,” he says, in that sharp clip Twiggy loves, and he quickly grabs the thong and jock strap at the same time and pulls them down. Manson's cock is barely out before Twiggy takes it down, pulling him to shuffle closer so he's standing between Twiggy's legs. He's done this before, but in the van, and he's never really had this much space. His mouth tastes like blood and precum and Manson's hand is in his dreads, holding his head down. “Whore,” he spits out, and Twiggy just moves his head, letting Manson dick deeper down his throat and he chokes on it. Manson lets go of his head so he can bob off.

“Fuck,” Twiggy mumbles, wiping spit off his mouth and putting it back on Manson's cock, working him for another second before his head is forced down again. He can only taste blood and cock and Manson growls low in his throat and Twiggy feels him still and cum in the back of his mouth, and when he pulls off he drools down the front of his dress. There's a ring of red lipstick smeared around the base of Manson's cock.

Twiggy coughs. “I hate you,” he says, voice fucked raw. “You ripped my tights.”

“Fuck you,” Manson says. He pulls the jock and thong back up. “Get new ones. I need to get out of stage clothes.”

Twiggy stays there on the end of the bed, watching Manson undress into an androgynous lanky creature that crawls into bed under the covers next to where he sits. Twiggy lays down and falls asleep on top of the sheets. He figures this dress may as well have another new stain set into it.


End file.
